“That’s an extensive menu,” I say. “Crimes? Nightmares? Poor decision-making?”
“Start with something that won’t make me bury someone,” he replies.
“That removes most of my backstory.” I pause. Exhale. “Fine. I’ll give you a soft one.”
He waits.
“How soft?” he asks.
“I used to steal candles from churches,” I say. “The expensive ones. Tall. White. Dramatic. My mom would lightthem for the saints, cry real good and hard. I would blow them out and take them home while she was distracted.”
He shifts beneath me. “You robbed God.”
“Relax. He got them back.” A thin smile ghosts across my mouth. “I’d line them up on the bathroom floor, pretend the tub was a boat and the tiles were the ocean. If I could keep every flame burning until sunrise… nobody I loved would die that week.”
He goes still.
My chest tightens, but I keep going.
“It didn’t work,” I murmur. “Obviously. But I kept trying. Burned my fingers more than once. Guess I started bargaining with God early.”
His hand drags slower now, careful, tracing my spine like it’s a prayer he doesn’t know how to say out loud.
“What happened to the candles?” he asks quietly.
I huff something between a laugh and a breath. “My mother caught me. Beat my ass with a wooden spoon while the saints watched. She told me God doesn’t listen to thieves.” I swallow. “I stopped stealing candles.”
The silence between us isn’t heavy.
It’s loaded.
Then, he does something I don’t expect.
He laughs.
Softly. Not cruel. Not mocking.
“You?” he says. “Little candle thief.”
“I was efficient,” I mutter. “Low risk. High reward… until it wasn’t.”
He shifts. I can feel the curve of his mouth against my hairline.
“I pictured you smaller as a kid,” he admits.
“Let me guess,” I say. “Sweet. Quiet. Halo-optional.”
“Terrified,” he answers.
That lands harder.
“Smaller. But loud on the inside.”
I tilt my head back to look at him. His eyes are warm and sharp all at once.
“You were never quiet,” he says.
“No,” I admit. “Paid for it.”
